professionalcrastinationitits
So this week I'm semi on deadline for a story. It's a difficult one to write - lots of research and asking people from my hometown really personal and delicate questions. I don't think I could ever be a scrum reporter. As in:"Lindsy, Lindsy. Is it true Miz. Wintore knocked you off her invite list because of your schnaff problem?""Gordo, gordo. Is it true that single moms are worse off now than they ever have been under your leadership?"Or whatever a real reporter asks.So instead of researching my article like a good girl I'm listening to Carl Craig's newest mix on Samurai and reading Dooce. Or I'm walk through Stanley Park to gawk like pervert at the clearcuts with She wants Revenge wailing in my ears (BTW - I've managed to 'discover' this band within a 8 months of their album release, bandwagon look out!). I also like folding laundry while watching Russell Peters on Youtube. So productive.One of my nobler procrastinatory techniques is to compile my portfolio, upload content like a mad computer geek shrew on my soon-to-come website. For the last week I've searched for soft copies of some old articles from continents away. The forward thinker I am, I cleaned out my hard drive about 6 months ago and accidentally erased one of my best feature stories on an AIDS activist/health care pioneer in Pretoria.Back to non-procrastination land.
dude - who dialled my phone?
Have you ever slept walked? What about sleep walking and dialling? I'm famous amongst one of my groups of friends for the drunken dial. I do it with exes. I do it with my current. I dial from night clubs. I dial from bathrooms. If there is a breathalizer for drunk'n'dialling my limit is about 3 glasses of red wine or 4 G&Ts. Pathetic I know. But last night I topped myself. There are two versions of this story. The 'conscious' as remembered by me. The 'unconscious' told by my BFF this morning @ 8:20. Conscious - or so I think.I went to bed at midnight last night. I was totally tired. Long night of obsessively looking for the perfect job and reading my favourite blogs. I flopped into my awesome, princessandthepea, firm bed. Then at what I thought was 6am, I wake up to my phone ringing. I can see the screen light from across my bachelor. I got out of bed and staggered over to the phone on my desk. The ringer isn't very loud because I have a head set plugged in (I'm not a geek, I was doing interviews yesterday and dishes.) I picked up my phone and my BFF's number is illuminated. The time read: 1:43 am. I was totally bewildered. I drank some water, went pee and flopped back in bed, thinking, 'I should call her in the morning, something might be up....zzzzzz".The crazy unconscious versionWhen I woke up this morning I kind of remembered the whole phone thing. I was worried about my BFF as she is NOT a drunken dialler like her buddy. Just as I was checking my 'missed call' history (she called 3x!) she called. She was all scratchy throated, groggy at work. "Miranda are you okay? You called me FOUR times last night." I said, "What you called me?" She said that no I called her at 1am, which she let slide. Then I called her again 3 times in a row at 1:40-1:43. I apologized and she of course being the BFF that she is was all good. I checked my dialled calls and she was right. Whatthefuck?So my conclusion: I'm a crazy sleep walker who uses her cell in her sleep. OR there's a ghost in my apartment. Oh yeah and my phillipshead screwdriver was on the counter this morning. I don't remember it being there. Hmmm. I'm closing my laptop tonite just incase I'm a sleep-emailer. I'm also turning off my cell.
So this week I'm semi on deadline for a story. It's a difficult one to write - lots of research and asking people from my hometown really personal and delicate questions. I don't think I could ever be a scrum reporter. As in:
